


Umbrella

by emungere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft's Umbrella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a combo of prompts:</p><p>A <a href="http://textsfromlastnight.com/">tfln</a> prompt: (+44): <i>He left his umbrella behind in my bed to 'keep me company', then stole my front door key before he went to work</i></p><p>And this one: <i>And now I want Lestrade getting filthy too - IDK, painting his lounge wearing ratty tracky bottoms and a worn out t-shirt, covered in paint splashes? Knocking a wall down for some DIY home renovation? Anyway, all dishevelled etc. Up to you...but defo irresistible.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> Anglofile has made a [lovely cover](http://anglofile.tumblr.com/post/19961341654/cover-no-4-of-5-for-eva-and-nyxe-umbrella-by) for this! Yay thanks!
> 
> Thanks to louiselux and justblue for assistance and corrections. Written for these [two](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/3114.html?thread=8945194) [prompts](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/3114.html?thread=9208106).

The blanket had ridden up to Lestrade's ears in the night. Someone tugged it away from his overheated skin and pressed a cool kiss to his temple and then to the corner of his mouth. Altogether a pretty decent way to wake up.

"I must go," his someone murmured. Voice: deep, rich, and posher than an Eton-educated banker at Henley Regatta. Was he a banker? A definite possibility given that suit.

Lestrade was sore all over in a terribly pleasant way. Individual points of soreness included: his rear (his someone had an astonishingly thick cock), wrists (good grip, too), thighs (riding that thick cock, good god). His eyes were sore as well, but that was just lack of sleep, which was common enough for him without the very good excuse of mind-blowing sex. He rubbed them and got them properly open.

"Morning," he said.

"I've left you something to keep you company. You may be assured I will be back for it."

"Hm?"

What was the man's name again? It had made Lestrade think immediately of Sherlock because he'd never met anyone else with such an absurd name. Started with an M. Well, this was embarrassing. Or should've been. Except Lestrade had just got shagged for the first time in a year, and so thoroughly it might last another year, and it was hard to summon any real embarrassment.

"Mycroft," his someone said, with faint smile.

"Sorry." Lestrade smiled back and touched Mycroft's perfectly crisp shirt cuff. Complete with initialed cuff link. Of course. "I might have a bit of trouble with my own name after last night."

Mycroft stooped and kissed him, fully on the mouth this time, and with a slow lick inside that made Lestrade shiver. And then he was gone, with a soft rustle of fabric as he gathered up his coat from the front hall. The door opened and shut, and Lestrade lay back against the pillows and stretched out.

His hand encountered something that did not belong in a bed, and he jerked it back. Thin, fabric, hard center. What on Earth? He whipped the covers back.

It was a black umbrella, with a wooden handle and a brass tip. In his bed.

He was still blinking at it when his phone bleeped with a text message. It was from John.

_saw you go off with sherlock's brother last night. everything all right?_

Sherlock's brother.

The cufflinks: MH. H for Holmes. Last night he'd had some of the best sex of his life with Sherlock's brother.

It was far too late to catch him--and what would he do if it wasn't?--but he bounded out of bed anyway, threw on jeans and coat and shoes and looked for his keys in the basket in the front hall where he always, always kept them. They were gone. He had no keys. Instead he had an umbrella and a promise from _Sherlock Holmes's brother_ to return for it.

He sat down hard on the little table that held the basket that currently did not hold his keys. Its legs creaked. A second text from John flashed at him.

_sorry if it's none of my business_

Lestrade wrote back quickly.

_we had a talk, he left his umbrella here, any idea how i can get it back to him?_

There was a long pause.

_pretty sure he'll be back for it. he doesn't leave that thing lying around just anywhere._

Lestrade had a feeling that John knew exactly what he meant by "had a talk."

He checked the clock: six in the morning, on his day off. He shucked off everything he'd just put on and climbed back into his still-warm bed. Next to the umbrella. Couldn't go anywhere until he had his keys back anyway. What the hell. He closed his eyes.

*

Lestrade woke for the second time just before noon. No one had called. No one had texted. There were, apparently, no dead bodies waiting for him. His day off was, so far, an actual, legitimate day off. _And_ he'd got off last night, even if it was with Sherlock's brother. He was officially not thinking about that.

Instead, he thought about the paint he'd bought a year ago to turn his kitchen from prison gray to a pale yellow. Tea, toast, ragged jeans and an ancient t-shirt, and he got to work.

By four, he was glancing at his mobile where it lay, silent, on the kitchen counter. He'd done a coat of primer and two coats of paint, and one more coat should do it, and _no one had called to interrupt him_. It was eerie. His days off were generally more like hours off, or half-days at best. Maybe the criminals were on strike.

Each successive coat took longer to dry, but by six, he was just about finished. Maybe some touch-up work on the trim in the daylight, but that was all. He wiped sweat off the back of his neck and then wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, not that it did much good. He was head-to-toe paint and dirt, sweat and grease, with a small amount of blood from where he'd jabbed his hand with the screwdriver trying to get the paint tin open. But he could stop mentally referring to his kitchen as Cell Block #9, so it was worth it.

He heard the sound of a key in the lock to his front door, distinctively squeaky with a hint of rust. Lestrade only had the one set of keys. The one Mycroft had lifted on his way out this morning.  

Lestrade looked to the hall, to the umbrella propped against the sofa, and back to the hall as Mycroft slid into view and paused in the doorway.

"Good evening," Mycroft said.

Lestrade nodded to him.

Mycroft looked him up and down in a manner that seemed to catalogue every grubby inch of him. "Did you enjoy your day off?" he said.

"It went all right. I got some things done."

"So I can see." Mycroft glided closer. His hand brushed the handle of his umbrella on the way, but he left it where it was. "I had thought you might take the opportunity to relax."

Lestrade blinked at him, realization arriving in his mind with no thought process to back it up. "It was you. You're the reason no one called."

Mycroft smiled, small and thin and delicate. He put his hands on Lestrade's chest. "I had hoped to find you still in bed. Ridiculous, I suppose, when dealing with someone as _active_ as yourself."

The word _active_ somehow recalled everything they'd done to each other last night, and Lestrade wanted to do it all over again.

"Uh, yeah, I can shower and, you know, fix that? If you want to wait."

He was cut off by Mycroft's mouth on his, Mycroft's tongue sliding between his lips and Mycroft's thigh between his legs like a military incursion.

"No," Mycroft said. "That won't be necessary."

Lestrade watched him, watched his eyes run up and down his body again, and yet again, lingering at the worn-white patches on the thighs of his jeans, the holes and paint smears on his shirt, the gap at his neck where the t-shirt was torn and the paint speckled across his neck and collar bone.

"Ohh," Lestrade said, breaking into a slow grin. "I see."

Mycroft gave him what started off as an annoyed glance but melted into something much softer as Lestrade grabbed his arse with both hands and pulled him in tight. The light wool of his suit was smooth and soft and caught on the rough patches of Lestrade's hands and on the stickier smears of paint.

"You've just ruined an eight hundred pound suit," Mycroft said.

Lestrade snorted and pulled Mycroft's shirt out of his trousers, got a hand up on the warm skin of his back, shifted his hips to drag his cock against Mycroft's thigh. "I'll work it off," he said.

Mycroft's cheeks went a bit pink, and Lestrade flipped their positions, pressed him against the wall, and kissed him hard. It went all bruising and desperate in under a second, and Mycroft's hands were pushing at his t-shirt, nails on his skin, bodies crushed together.

Lestrade heard their breathing, the thud of his pulse in his ears, the low hum of the fridge, and nothing else. Mycroft didn't object when he popped the buttons off his crisp white shirt one by one, or when he cupped Mycroft's cock through his trousers and left an obscene outline of paint and grime, or when he rubbed it in with hard, flat strokes of his palm.

Mycroft swallowed and gasped and let his head bang against the wall. He hooked his fingers inside Lestrade's jeans and yanked, and held him there so that Lestrade was all but riding Mycroft's thigh, a hot, solid pressure against his dick. And then Mycroft had Lestrade's jeans open and down, and Lestrade hissed at the feel of fine wool on naked skin.

Lestrade could smell Mycroft's cologne, something very clean and classic. It was particularly strong in the crook of Mycroft's neck, and he pressed his face there, licked and bit lightly, dragged his own stubble across Mycroft's perfectly smooth jawline.

Mycroft's breath hitched, and he pressed his hand over Lestrade's, over his cock, pressed down hard and squeezed until Lestrade took the hint. Mycroft's trousers were loose enough, and Lestrade curled his fingers around Mycroft's cock and stroked him through the fabric. Mycroft's fingers dug into his hip and upper arm.

It was too easy to imagine the ten purple spots he'd be wearing in a few hours when the bruises came up. He liked that, the thought of Mr Posh himself holding on so hard he marked him up, liked it probably too much. It made his cock jerk and spurt pre-come against Mycroft's trousers, into the folds of fabric where his thigh met his hip.

Lestrade closed his eyes and shoved in there, rubbed and rutted, and jerked Mycroft off in time with his own rhythm. Mycroft's breaths came fast and uneven and hot his cheek, and Mycroft held him still harder as his body tensed and he came. Lestrade felt wet heat spreading under his hand, and _fuck_ that was hot. He pulled back to see Mycroft's face, slack and undone, and that was all it took. He grabbed onto Mycroft's shoulder as he came and his knees went weak under him.

He let out a long breath and felt Mycroft's arms come around him in support. Lestrade slumped into him and planted a hand against the wall next to his head.

" _Now_ I've ruined an eight hundred pound suit."

"Well done," Mycroft murmured.

After a few more seconds devoted to steadying his breath and pulse, Lestrade pulled back enough to look him over.

"You're a mess," he said. He heard more fondness in his voice than he'd meant to put there. "You'll have to borrow something to go home in. Ah. Not that you have to leave," he added, too quickly.

"Certainly not. I shall have another suit sent over, and then I will take you out to dinner. We have reservations for eight. You had better go and take that shower."

"Sounds great, I'm starving." He leaned in for another kiss. "I won't be long. Unless you join me."

He headed off, content with the world, pretty certain he wouldn't be showering alone, and once again in possession of his house keys. They'd been in Mycroft's trouser pocket. He hadn't been pickpocketed consistently for five years by Sherlock and learned nothing.


End file.
